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Every year it seems that everyone gets sentimental and starts
thinking about what they are thankful for. After all, it is called
'Thanksgiving" and far be it for me to let another one slip by
without at least a mention of my appreciation. But this year,
I am going to add a twist: Rather than listing what I am thankful
for, how about what I am thankful for NOT having:
To top the list, I should say that I am thankful I am an
adult and NOT forced to eat what I do not want to. Whose idea
was it to produce semi-solid, blood red gelatin and force it
upon unsuspecting children? They should really call it "crapberries"
as far as I'm concerned.
Next, I should thank God that I am not a turkey. For one,
have you ever seen a turkey up close? Crap hanging off the top
of their beaks and a "waddle" underneath. Good Lord, what was
He thinking at the drawing board during the design process of
that one? Not to mention that November brings the time of sanctioned
murder for these busted up looking birds. That would put a real
damper on the early fall, don't you think?
Back to the dinner table; what twisted mind came up
with yams? Even the name, for goodness sake. "Hey, let's take
this root out the ground, hack the dirt off, dump it in boiling
water with some unknown nasty spices until it becomes the consistency
of paste. Yeah, let's do that." And I do not want to even get
into pumpkin pie. Desserts' and bulbous veggies' paths should
never cross, under any circumstances.
I am thankful that I did not travel this year. The thought
of packing up a representation of my daily living necessities
(and my wife packing everything else in the house including
some items from the neighbors' belongings, just in case) does
not strike me as a celebratory experience.
You got everything? Where is the kids? Is that one ours?
I don't care if Bulbasaur gets carsick, we are not stopping!
Does that tire look low? Well, if we didn't have to leave at
0100, the broken headlight wouldn't matter now, would it? No
we are not there yet. Use the Gatoraide bottle, that's what
I did at CAX! OK, Jimmy is done crackin' corn because I really
really don't care. We made it, Ma, where's your crapper? Actually,
I have lost weight. No, mother, I will not eat the cranberries!
Kids, I'm about to start breaking necks! Great, the hide-a-bed.
You still have that, do ya? I know I just got here two days
ago, but I have to be at work tomorrow. No, Officer, why don't
you let me in on my speed and then we will both know. Good to
be home but could the cat have even hit the linoleum near the
box?
I am thankful that a man's place is not in the malls after
Thanksgiving. I stayed home with the kids while my wife dressed
up in her best "Road Warrior" outfit getting ready for battle.
Have you seen this annual ritual where perfectly normal women
go out and turn into rabid, blood-thirsty combatants in a cross
between roller derby and an ultimate fighting contest over $3
bucks off a Nintendo? Hey, childbirth and post Thanksgiving
shopping. Guys, be thankful.
My wife is the interior decorator. If it was up to me, we
would have a half-dead, Good Grief Charlie Brown Christmas tree
and whatever lame 70s era Christmas decorations I could pilfer
from my Mom. But the day after Thanksgiving, also known as the
Christmas Explosion, is a time for my wife to turn into Christine
Cringle. After washing off the drying blood of the less
fortunate shopping wounded, she pulls out "The Boxes." I am
then thankful that I am just another obstacle to cower in the
corner while my house gets turned into Santa's Wonderland on
meth. Mere hours later, it is as though the spirit of Christmas
came in on pixy wings and proceeded to projectile vomit on everything
I own.
About the only responsibility I have in this insane evolution
is a little play called "Risk Your Life Hanging Twinkling Lights
on the House." Other than the obvious question of exactly what
illusion we are going for ("Hey, look, the Groses' house is
on fire but only in exactly sequenced bits along the lines of
the house!"), the other question begs to be asked, "If I am
willing to die for my country, why should I be required to tempt
God by climbing on my roof to slap up strings of plastic and
glass with electricity running though them?" The answer, as
some of you men will some day hear as the standard rebuttal
if you haven't already, involves the childbirth thing mentioned
above.
So there I go, with a wad of tangled lights whose mysteries
should be studied by the same scientists who just cracked the
human DNA sequence, up the ladder to my certain death. Thoughts
of the lights getting around my neck as I slip, bang my skull
on the gutter on the way down while an exposed piece of wiring
pumps 115 volts through my convulsing body and the last words
I hear is my wife calling me an idiot, race through my mind.
But those lights have to go up. It just would not be Christmas
without the bloodletting. I'm gonna go now to have a cold turkey
sandwich as my last meal and clean up the cranberries the cat
threw up, after finding my way past the waving animatronic Santa
and reindeer-dung cosies.
Happy Thanksgiving.
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